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REVELATION 16:6

Thou hast given them blood to chink; for they are worthy.

~ * ~

Vic examined the cloisonné box, turning it over and over in his heavy fingers and peering at the butterfly of brilliant colors against its fractured royal blue background. Such a tiny thing, it disappeared entirely when he folded his fingers into a fist.

Such a little thing, indeed.

Anyelet had seen him. It hadn't taken any so-called vampire "gift" to feel her shock, then her repressed rage. He responded to others, to their treatment, their impressions upon him, like clay pressed into a mold. He'd grown up a tough Italian kid who'd constantly fought with and against the west side street gangs, and even immortality couldn't erase the mementos he still carried, one wide scar crossing his left side from battling a kid armed with a shattered liquor bottle, another arcing around his neck, this from a fifteen-year-old who'd nearly managed to cut Vic's throat. Hand encased in homemade brass knuckles, Vic had delivered a punch to the solar plexus that had left his enemy gasping and helpless as Vic had pried the knife free, torn open the youth's shirt and carved the word COWARD across the sallow, boyish chest.

Vic still felt guilty about that. And who, after all, had been the coward? Himself, of course, a boy already masquerading in a man's body. His friends would have crucified him for letting the Latin King live, but it hadn't mattered. When he'd staggered into the house covered with blood, his hysterical mother had actually slapped him before realizing what she'd done. He knew she'd struck him out of fear and love, but his resentment was quick and helpless as he thought of the constant, unconditional devotion she gave Vic's nearly bedridden father. In those days physicians still made house calls, and Dr. Finocchiaro, a frequent caller anyway, came in the middle of the night to sew Vic's neck back together because in the old neighborhood you handled your own business and didn't involve the police. As a result of that night, his mother had sent him to live with her brother in Rockford, an older man who was as unyielding as a block of granite beneath a surprisingly mild exterior. Young and still impressionable, Vic had learned an appreciation for life from Uncle Mike out of which he would eventually make a career; all that trouble to save his neck and look what had happened to it.

Yes, Anyelet had seen, and Vic hadn't cared. Responding to her anger, in fact, he had mentally dared her to say or do something about it. At least it had proven she couldn't see into his mind without him knowing it, though with eye contact she could rifle someone's mind like an open file cabinet. The traitorous thoughts that so often filled the spaces that before his dark transformation had held human feelings like love, charity, and forgiveness remained hidden; now he only hated in degrees, depending upon whom and what he was thinking about at the time.

And he Hungered.

Oh yes.

There was no logic behind his theft. The notion of challenging Anyelet's authority was absurd—he no more wanted to control this motley pack of animals than he wanted to crawl beneath the sun and fry, and besides, she probably held powers that he couldn't even imagine. He wanted to live, and maybe there was his subconscious desire to betray their presence. That unknown woman wanted to live, too, and he knew that tomorrow the struggle she'd so valiantly carried on these past months would end, all because of the ravings of a stupid old man. Vic sighed and dropped the butterfly box on his cot, then slipped down a back stairway, indulging in a lazy fantasy about what he would do to Howard if he caught him skulking around. Sunup was only an hour away and he had to make sure old Hugh was inside for the day. The crazy vampire was probably hungry, too, even if he had managed to snare a rat or something else for a sort of dinner. Vic had followed him once, and while the old man usually caught something, the meal was never very large. If he didn't help things along, Hugh would slowly starve, withering until he became indistinguishable from the outcasts that haunted the tunnels and connecting basements of the downtown buildings. Vic would never be able to bear that.

The ancient vampire was in his habitual spot outside, standing where the concrete sidewalk met the metal grating on the bridge, peering between the spaces rather than over the walkway at the water below and playing an invisible trumpet. At the sound of Vic's approach he raised his head and smiled with crooked teeth.

"Waiting for Tisbee," Hugh explained. He glanced at a broken watch dangling precariously from his wrist, then sucked in a mouthful of air so he could make a blowing noise. "She's late again," he complained. "Been waiting here for a year, dammit all." The accuracy of Hugh's words made Vic start. "Boy's late, too," Hugh continued. "Supposed to bring me dinner, and the little bastard's not here. Shit!"

"It's all right," Vic said soothingly. "He'll—"

"I'm hungry!" Hugh's voice was a sudden, strident scream through the steel girders of the Wells Street Bridge. Vic gasped at its loudness, then the old man abruptly dropped his tone back to normal and gave Vic a sidelong glance. "Have to go to the dungeon soon," he said cryptically. "The fireball's on its way."

"Yes," Vic agreed. He saw the hollowness of Hugh's cheeks and the way the skin had shrunk close around his jaw. Once the old one's mouth had been full-lipped and laughing; now it was a hard, jagged slash barely covering the cracked fangs.

"Hungry," Hugh said again. He looked at Vic and for a moment the younger vampire saw regret in that shriveled expression—regret, and a plea for understanding, maybe a cry for mercy. A long time ago Vic had thought he could give Hugh a cure; instead he had frozen the old man into permanent imbecility.

Vic had purposely fed again a short time ago, taking a small meal from a healthy man only because he knew that Hugh would be hungry and, after all, someone had to look out for the old man. The others were already burrowing into their sleeping places, filled and fat, quick to flee the coming daylight. Last night he'd been petrified during the endless moments of Anyelet's attempt to look into Hugh's mind. Now he knew that no one could see. Or maybe, as in life, no one bothered.

He offered his arm and Hugh fell upon it eagerly.

The least Vic could do was watch over his own father.